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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588560">C'est la vie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdfishy/pseuds/weirdfishy'>weirdfishy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>weirdfishy's criminal minds prompt fills [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood and Injury, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt, Murder, Murderer!Reader, Other, Reader is David Rossi's Adopted Child, Revenge Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, gender neutral reader, not beta'd we die like emily in s7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:14:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588560</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdfishy/pseuds/weirdfishy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which You go off your rocker to kill the man that killed your parents. </p><p>based on prompt:<br/>"It never should have come to this..."<br/>"Little too late now."</p><p>Chapter 1 can be read as a stand alone</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaron Hotchner &amp; Reader, David Rossi &amp; Reader, Derek Morgan &amp; Reader, Emily Prentiss &amp; Reader, Emily Prentiss/Reader, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau &amp; Reader, Penelope Garcia &amp; Reader, Spencer Reid &amp; Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>weirdfishy's criminal minds prompt fills [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Too Late</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: I don't know about hospital procedures past google searches, so if there are inaccuracies I apologize Any other real-world inaccuracies you see; don't hesitate to let me know! Be nice in the comments, please</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>latest edits to this chapter: 3/4/21 (so it blends easier with the upcoming chapters- there are more details)</p><p>spoiler: I have no clue how much blood actually sticks to hair, 1) bc I've never murdered anybody, and 2) I've never experienced/seen a major head wound that drew blood</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>probably screen reader friendly, (I wouldn't know what specifically to look for in terms of compatibility since I generally do not need it) but there are a lot of visual stylization techniques I use. You can still use the screen reader, of course, but it might not have the full affect that was intended. time would be estimated to around 20 to 25 minutes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Liquid crimson leaked down your arms, down your legs, dripping off your shirt, staining your pants; little by little soaking into the fabric. The color soaked your hair, your skin, sinking into each and every pore and particle. It mixed with your own where your skin was torn open, having earned more than a few jagged cuts along your body.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your face was spattered with the same deep color, mostly his, but a nasty gash crept its way up the right side of your face. It was somewhat shallow, but blood was dribbling out and mixing with the stain around your neck where he tried to choke you. His hands had been too slippery in his own blood, and you had easily returned the favor, twisting his arm behind his back as your other arm wound its way around his neck, causing him to scrabble for purchase, only to find more slippery blood.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One would think, with fatal gut wounds and little air, that a person would give up. That they would simply cease struggling and die. Sure, it wouldn't be as satisfying, to confront your parent's murderer and find them lacking, but at least you now knew your parents weren't killed by a wimp with a gun and alcohol in his system. He wasn’t though, and he actually put up a good fight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="">
  <p>Makes the revenge sweeter, finding him fit- albeit horribly unclean and smelly- and wrestling the life out of him. He had put up a hell of a fight, which you expected, you weren’t exactly sneaking behind him in a blitz attack. A small amount of respect went to him, and at the thought, you tipped your bloodied head at his body, which was slowly losing warmth and life- most of his blood on the floor, the walls, or you. <em><b>What’d Spencer say? We have about one and a half gallons of blood?</b>  </em> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>He didn’t mention how much hair soaks it up though, and with your head tip you saw how discolored it was with blood. Speaking of, you touched your hair, its somewhat lengthy locks chopped roughly with the broken window’s old-fashioned glass in the scramble for an advantage.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>How annoying. Squeezing out your hair, thinking of the police car- no, wait, it would probably be an ostentatious FBI-issued SUV, carting your adoptive family around, trying to find you. It wouldn't be hard. They’d find you either way, might as well not use your resources unnecessarily to try <em>too hard</em> to avoid them.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Your victim, for you didn't shy from what you did, had just finished his sentence in Nevada, and then moved to the east coast. Convenient for you, but it had made you change your plan, as well as think more thoroughly at where you would lure him. If only to give you more time to make him suffer. You had self-voted against a getaway. The people searching for you knew your psyche better than yourself, and anything you chose they could probably profile.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You might as well save the federal government some money, what with your pseudo-uncle abusing his unit chief title to throw around tax dollars and adoptive father doing much the same to 'save' the BAU team members. You weren’t a member, sure, but Rossi was your dad - had been for most of your life - and you were a family friend of the Hotchners by extension. And when you met them, you couldn’t help but immediately write the team off as family, brothers and sisters under the same sort of tutelage. They were all important to you, but this person, this corpse, had taken your former life away, had taken any semblance of rationality and sanity from within you and let it bleed out of your parents. Yeah, there would be no 'saving' you. Not this time. Not with this. You made your decision. Equal body count.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Lyle Carfil was your victim's name, but you didn't think he deserved one. A name. Maybe you didn't either, when you had committed the same crime. Murder. Yours premeditated, his, you didn't know. You made it a point as you lived as the ever-philanthropic (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N) Rossi; perfect, upstanding charity case adoptive child, to not know about your parent’s murder. Sans his name. Apparently, not knowing didn’t stop the need for revenge, or the mental break you had. The latter really couldn't be predicted anyway, especially if you were consistently away from the people who had the best chance of predicting it and helping.  Oh, and you didn't think of yourself as a charity case. People said it, you’d hear whispers of it at functions, even at signings or publicity events, but people did little else but talk. You didn't care.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>You stumble around the small apartment, muscles tired from physically taking on Carfil. He was a moderately bulky man, but your physical strength seemed to have lived only for the last few hours' events. You locate your revolver, finding it in the high kitchenette cabinet as you left it, before shoving it in your waistband. After stumbling some more, you find the bathroom, trying it for water. It worked, thank fuck. It had a mirror too, so maybe you could clean up your hair. Looking at yourself though - gash drawn garrishly down your face, skin a splotchy smear of red and pink, clothes a dirty rust color, and shirt sticking to the growing patch of red in your abdomen - your hair didn't look too bad. Definitely had a more natural roughish look.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You check your watch, swiping the face clear. You had time. Penelope should have traced the transaction when you bought the block of buildings by now and it only took a few hours to reach your position from Quantico. </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><em> <b>Eh. where was that piece of glass?</b> </em> <b></b></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You walk back out, and find it near his body, bloodied. The kitchenette was starting to smell, the afternoon sun blazing through the broken window and heating up the entire apartment. Your stomach would have heaved, but you wrapped an arm around your middle, palm pressing into the stab wound, and forced your guts to stay inside of you. It wasnt like you had anything to regurgitate.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You lean down to grab the chunk of dirtier glass, ignoring the jagged edges digging into your flesh. You sighed into the sharp tear of your palm, letting yourself feel the pain. Your eyes slipped closed for a beat, but the cacophony in your head pried them back open. The soreness in your chest was distant, but once adrenaline ran out, you knew it would burn. Cracked ribs, probably. Adrenaline was doing a lot for you right now, actually.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>The glass melded with your hand as you walked back. You hacked into your hair to even it out a bit more, and then ran the shower’s water. Cold. You stepped into the sleet-like water, letting it soak through you. The blood drains in what seems like gallons off of you. Your eyes stare unblinking at the wall, mind running over your affairs one last time.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>Your pseudo-cousin got some of whatever money wasn’t a part of the savings account from your dad, everything else divvied between what philanthropic endeavors you consistently supported. The success of your books meant you had enough saved. You switched your last two names, Rossi pushed to the middle. Aside from legalities discussed with your lawyer under the guise of book material (mystery novels were a wonderful cover), you had left a padlocked box of papers, the practice of letter-writing instilled by your adoptive father.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>Each stack was a compilation of thoughts on people or the world. Some were the older written works you’d never shown anybody. The topmost letters were the most important. All were written on the carefully kept handmade stock from Emily, written with an exclusive Star Trek pen from Spencer, adorned with cat stickers from Penelope, wax-sealed with the first stamp your papa had gifted you, and signed with the silly pen-name Jack and Henry had assigned you. They were person-specific, all of them lengthy and heavily emotional. Your cousins had been worse, more time spent together meaning a thicker envelope and more tear stains, but it was the absolute least you could have done. God, you were glad he was halfway around the world. He could probably breathe at you and make you change your mind.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>Weird, the way your mind worked, taking the time to write to them but hastily and messily killing Carfil. Your hand reached out to steady yourself as a roiling wave of nausea overcomes you, water still coming off of you in torrents of pink.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You saw them before you heard them, ears waterlogged and the bathroom window showing the street. The lights were not easily mistakable, and so you stepped out of the water, shutting it off as you heard the bottom door slam open. You wondered if Derek had called in SWAT.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You snorted. <b><em>Yeah right, as if Strauss would let this shit happen with her approval.</em> <em>That was probably actually Derek. </em></b></p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Dancing to a tune only you knew, you ambled out of the bathroom, thumb pulling the hammer of the revolver back with a soft <em>click</em>.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Figuring it would be awfully rude to not greet your guests, you leaned heavily on the rickety door frame to the main section, revolver in your free hand. Blood had been dragged across the floor, leading to the kitchen. It was dried already, airborne flakes sticking to your wet shoes. Already your torn clothes were regaining warmth and damning color.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Your mind fell silent. <em><b>Strange. </b></em></p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Drip.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You yawned, your torso slowly stretching. Your shirt’s wet state spread the stain faster. Fighting Carfil was exhausting, and they were taking <em>forever</em>. It’s not like you killed a man in a building full of people. You had more tact than that, thanks. You only wanted one person to scream, and no traumatized children. Not like you.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>drop.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>The moment the door burst open in a shower of cheap sawdust splinters, you yawned again, eyes darting at who was there. It would be a pity if it wasn’t your pseudo-family, but then maybe you could just point it at the cops. You knew exactly what the cops did to people who blended into the night and held toy guns.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>drip,</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Pity slunk behind familiarity and a twisted sort of relief - <em><strong>hell-o there</strong></em>. Their faces twisted, and you could see their gag reflexes be supressed. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, considering this confrontation was likely 100% unsanctioned, Hotch and Rossi were there, along with whom you correctly identified as Morgan, and <em>oh yeah</em>, your could-have-been. This was more than you could have hoped for, really. Morgan's face was emotional -  more emotional than you thought it’d be - this is what his job was for goodness sake, he couldn't break just like that. He was <em>better </em>than that. He was better than <em>you. </em>Your torn palm waved to him in a small motion, your other hand still. You weren’t entirely worried they would shoot you, but. It could happen. Morgan's face twisted like he’d been personally hurt. <b><em>Thank you, Derek, for always being there. I’ll never forget your hugs. They felt like home.</em></b></p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>drip,</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Hotch and Rossi had their faces stony and set, grip firm, and arms level. A wide grin pulled your lips, and made the open wound on your face dribble more blood. It caused Rossi's finger to twitch, an aborted movement to wipe it. Hotch's eyebrows crept closer, a sign you saw as his mind racing. <b><em>Bake cookies with Jack, Zio, he loves the monster ones. Make sure to be with him always. Don't be like me, old man. Thanks for saving me. I'll tell Haley you said 'hi'.</em></b></p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>drop.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“Y/N,” Rossi said, persuasive voice in play and lifting his hands up, his finger- well, it wasn’t on the trigger before, but he made a show of it. You ignored him. Instead, you turned to Emily, her face schooled and body steady. You could only tell she was hesitant because her hair was down and her arms weren’t locked firmly as per her preferred stance. Your smile turned rueful, and finally, the hand holding the gun rose, making everybody tense up.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>plip,</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>In a twist, you tried to point it to the opposite side of your head, laughing at the results. “Requires <em>quite </em>a bit of contortion, indeed.” Nobody else moved.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>plop.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You hear Reid through their comms. “Sherlock Holmes.” <b><em>Quick as always, little brother. Stay sharp, don’t cry for me. I don’t deserve it, your undeniable lecture be damned.</em></b></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>plip,</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“Oh indeed, <em>Doctor</em>,” you say to thin air, the comms no doubt catching it. The barrel rested on the correct side of your head, winking at Hotch. Your finger is more on the trigger than the rest of them, yet they hesitate. <strong><em>Caught-out my dears? </em></strong></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>plop.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Emily recovers first, finger moving to the trigger, arms locked. <b><em>There’s that determination. </em></b>The barrel is pointed at your arm though, making your head tilt to the side, now resting more firmly on the barrel. Morgan focuses his own barrel away from anything resembling a kill shot, face plainly twisting through emotion after emotion. His aim falters. He must have spotted the center of the blood on your body.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>plip plop.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“0-3-2-4-0-7,” you start, enunciating them clearly. It’s the code to your box of letters. With the illegality of <em>them</em> catching you- they handle <em>serial killers, </em>you’ve killed one man- Garcia is handling a private comms channel<em>. </em>Your face turns to Morgan, dead eyes staring into his. <b><em>Stay bright my lucky Penny, the world doesn’t deserve the light you are. Bring me brownies every once in a while, yeah? </em></b></p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>plip plop.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Your face turns to Morgan, dead eyes staring into his.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Drip, </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“Family is not blood.” You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, voice low and slow.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>sigh</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“But I would bleed and cry for family found blind- I would turn to &amp; die. I would turn blade &amp; kill.” You lick your lips, catching the edge of the cut, the sting causing you to shiver. <b><em>JJ, you’re the best mom out there, thanks for filling that spot for me. Henry is the luckiest kid. </em></b></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>drip,</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“Apocalypse,” you finish, tilting your head back to face them, squeezing the trigger.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>die-</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> <strong><em>bang</em></strong></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>You crash down the frame, limbs failing and ears ringing. Your shoulders are grabbed within some time, Morgan's firm palms gently shaking you. <strong><em>Fuck.</em></strong> The resulting lancing pain in your side makes you want to hurl, and you feel something tighten around your middle. It's Hotch's tie. The bright red turning crimson makes you giggle. Your head is ringing, and you can feel your body's pain dull a little. </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>dripdrip drop.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Your hand is hurriedly divested of a weapon, and a heavy sigh to your right - where the blurry figure of Hotch is - tells you they figured out how you loaded the gun. Alternating bullets, blanks, and live ammo. It wouldn't matter. Not now. Not when your torso is leaking blood so obviously. The blanks were just you wanting the possibility of drawing out your pain. Yet they try to make you focus, to keep your head off your chest. You can’t. You <em>just </em>shot a blank at your head, there’s bound to be <em>more </em>mental damage.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>slip,</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>A slow grin stretches your torn lips across your teeth, the look made more maniacal in the pitying faces of your present company by your wounds and wandering eyes. You’re hoisted into Morgan's arms - his usual warmth of home so far in this painful mockery of a hug - and you can’t feel the rush down the steps you distantly know are there. Flashing lights, so unmistakable far away but blinding up close, cause your tongue to loll out of your mouth. Morgan might be talking, but your ears don’t pick anything up even as your eyes catch his lips moving when they flutter open for a couple seconds. You get loaded into a stretcher and ambulance quickly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>slide-</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong><em>Wretched expensive party bus.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>your hands,</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Your hand is gripped in something, and you don’t know how you’re still awake, but you look to your left, Rossi’s weathered hands encasing your own in a prayer-like slump.<strong><em> Some things don’t change. But that's what I love about you, Babbo. Thanks. For everything.</em></strong></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>hold mine.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>When you turn to your right, past the first responder, is Emily, looking at you forlornly. Despite it all, you can hear her in perfect clarity.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>Breathe-</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“It should never have come to this, Y/N.” </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>heave-</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em> <strong>Lil’ too late now, Em.</strong> </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em> <strong>bye.</strong> </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Your grin turns to a smile, and your eyelids slip closed. </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em> <strong>I love you.</strong> </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em> <strong>~</strong> </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Pau</em>
  </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey thanks for reading!! I appreciate it a lot!!</p><p>- This chapter can be read as a stand-alone, but I am currently working on expanding it! Any chapters past this will be a part of that continuation, which follows the reader and the team in the hospital! <br/>I love comments! key smashes and heart emojis always accepted! 💚</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Foreseeable Future</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Your entire body <i>burns.</i></p><p><i>God, it burns</i>. It burns,  and each nerve is screaming at you to do <i>something</i> but you can’t do <i>anything.</i> The agony is dragging you under, burying you in torturous pain and leaving you aware of it, but you don’t know what else your body is doing but <i>hurting</i>.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a special thanks to BrookeDaughterofApollo for inspiring the continuation, and it's now looking to pan out to at least two more chapters!! </p><p>This is the first one I've actually had to plan out since most often I write one-shots off the cuff, which is why it took so long to get the ball rolling on a continuation, but I'm excited for this and I hope you stick around!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You stumble through the door, hastily toeing off your boots and hanging your traveling cloak before easing back on slamming the door, resisting the urge to lean on it and fall asleep. You’d just got off the plane an hour ago, coming from Seattle. You had had a book signing last week to celebrate the anniversary release of your second novel and kickstart publicity for your third. The plan was to stay for another month to traipse about Washington state and finish with a few other signings around British Columbia, but today was a day you couldn’t spend anywhere else. You had to be home.</p><p> </p><p>When your agent, Ryn, had planned the trip, you’d agreed to it, hoping to finally wean yourself off of the grief. You knew it wouldn’t work like that; it never did. One could hope though. </p><p> </p><p>Once you woke that afternoon, you stared at the ceiling and tried to snuff the familiar bubble of emotions that threatened to drown you by screaming into your pillow for who knows how long and going for a run.</p><p> </p><p>You ended up calling Ryn to let them know you were going home for some time, but you’d be back before the next signing. They’d booked you a ticket in sympathy, hearing your voice through the phone. You had called right in the middle of your run, and you hadn’t felt the tears streaming down your wind-numbed face.</p><p> </p><p>You were on the first flight you could catch. Roughly four hours of flight and a couple more for getting to and from the airports later and losing hours from time zones, you were finally back home, in the expanse of night-darkened Virginian forest. </p><p> </p><p>Now, back in the house you’d primarily lived in since your abrupt adoption, you yawned, wanting to wash the feel of the airport off of you. And possibly pass out on the nearest soft surface. Maybe get some food in you, if there was any - and knowing your papa, there was. </p><p> </p><p>He was probably already expecting you home today. He always did, no matter how many times you said you wouldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>This year, you were too mentally worn out to hold a vigil, but you’d always light the jasmine-scented candle in remembrance. Remembrance of a softly humming voice and booming laughter, of warm embraces and card games in between studying, and kisses on your forehead as a symbol of good luck and love.</p><p> </p><p>Remembrance of your parents.</p><p> </p><p>Stepping into the kitchen with lidded eyes, you spot your pseudo-uncle, in the rare comfortable garb of a worn sweater and jeans, facing you with a soft smile. You tilt your head in confusion, assuming he was visiting, but not entirely sure why.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it not...?” You trail off, moving to grab your phone to check the date. Did you get the date wrong? No, Ryn had known what today was, right? You shook your head, earning a heavy ache from the left side of your head. But...normally your Papa would host your uncle on Tuesdays - it was Thursday, right? If Aaron was here...where was Haley and baby Jack? Your fingers grasped your phone, moving your head to see if you could spot them, but you were facing the cabinets.</p><p> </p><p>You try turning around, but a pair of firm hands keep you in place. You feel yourself blink rapidly, but strangely, you can’t really see. Your arms become like noodles at your side, and the added weight of Aaron’s hands is almost enough to make your knees buckle. God, you must look like a wreck, because once your vision does clear, both your dad and your uncle are staring at you, their concern written clear across their faces.</p><p> </p><p>You try for a smile, but it must come out more of a grimace, because their faces turn into something too complicated for your mind to handle. You give a smile again, but a pain shoots up your cheek, and the weighted ache presses against the entirety of your skull with a vengeance, radiating from your left temple.</p><p> </p><p>Aaron leads you to the couch quickly, and you groan as you hit the comfortable cushions, taking in a breath of the familiar material. The deep breath makes your chest burn. A cold glass is placed in your hands, and your dad’s weathered palms help guide the cup to your lips. You drink slowly, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.</p><p> </p><p>You open your eyes, croaking out, “Thanks, Babbo, I-”</p><p> </p><p>An assortment of strangers are staring at you and your dad, cutting off your sentence. Now you’re <em>really </em>confused. Aaron being here unexpectedly was easy to brush off - you notice that Haley and Jack are nowhere to be found - but a handful of strangers? What?</p><p> </p><p>But they seem to be looking at you with <em>concern, </em> and that somehow makes something click into place behind the terrible feeling in your head. This is his <em>team. </em> This is the other part of his <em>family </em>that you hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.</p><p> </p><p>You open your mouth to greet them, apologize for interrupting, explain you hadn’t had time to call, say your dad talks about them a lot, and welcome them before leaving to sleep, but the second you try to straighten, your gut revolts against you.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like somebody is pressing a hot, heavy hand <em>inside </em>of you, moving your innards around and tangling them together. It feels like a serrated knife is grating on your insides and along your skin, shredding the sinew holding you together. It sends jolts of throbbing, sparking electricity throughout your torso and legs, relighting the oppressive burn in your chest. </p><p> </p><p>The thumping in your skull pulls your head down, and you <em>must </em>have pressed your face against the couch, even if you can’t feel anything there. You don’t know how you’re breathing- <em>if </em>you <em>can </em>be breathing, when your throat feels flat and your lungs heave in air but grates like steel wool scraping along your rib cage.</p><p> </p><p>Your face contorts, pulling on the muscles in your face that seem too loose, but it’s lost to the rush of blood in your ears and the tears falling out of your eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Your entire body <em>burns</em>.</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>God, it burns</em>. It burns,  and each nerve is screaming at you to do <em>something</em> but you can’t do <em>anything.</em> The agony is dragging you under, burying you in torturous pain and leaving you aware of it, but you don’t know what else your body is doing but <em>hurting</em>.</p><p> </p><p>You feel every part of your body alight with pain and a bone-deep ache settles into your bones, before it drags your consciousness farther than six feet under.</p><p> </p><p>Then you feel nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>The last high-pitched, rapid beeping fades out, giving way to a steady, consistent noise. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound behind the dark blue masks. The room’s dimmed fluorescent light flickers - once, twice, thrice, before holding steady, a stark contrast to the bloodied hands of the present surgeons and nurses.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Their hands are the only thing they allow to move - the tremors truly involuntary - until the minute stretches into two. Once it makes it to the three minute mark with the heart rate monitor not changing it’s pace, the room gives a collective sigh, some briefly squeezing their eyes shut. Another life sustained. They all move mechanically to clean up. They may have kept their patient - one of the hardest they’ve had this month - alive, but it’s unknown terrain from here. They all can only hope that they would make it.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>~</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A nurse not from the operating room speedwalks to the waiting room, and is faced with a distraught group of adults. All of their heads snap to face him the second he clears his throat, and they all huddle to him.  It's been a long day, and the sun has long set. The group looks like they've seen better days, even with their job - he hadn't missed the bureau badges they had been flashing around earlier.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He can’t help but be utterly relieved to be able to say this to them. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Y/N is going to be in intensive care for the foreseeable future, but they made it out of surgery.”</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p> Since I didn't want to do the whole "didn't make it off the table" thing bc I still get torn up about that scene, you survive. You make it out of surgery and not one person knows what's going to happen next...(except me)</p><p>tell me what you think is going to happen!! (or ask, bc I am weak for such things and will probably give you hints if you ask)</p><p>💚💚</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading!!<br/>my tumblr is <a href="https://weirdfishy.tumblr.com/">weirdfishy</a></p><p>if you can, give me some exposure on tumblr by reblogging!!<br/><a href="https://weirdfishy.tumblr.com/post/641245580453167104/cest-la-vie">chp 1</a><br/><a href="https://weirdfishy.tumblr.com/post/644622020352638976/cest-la-vie-chp-2">chp 2</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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